


The Devil's Picture Book

by pallidiflora



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), M/M, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-12
Updated: 2015-08-12
Packaged: 2018-04-14 06:34:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4554423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pallidiflora/pseuds/pallidiflora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The importance of breakfast, lunch, dinner, and most of all dessert.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Devil's Picture Book

**Author's Note:**

> "But let us be prim and civilized." - Vladimir Nabokov, Lolita

Sebastian wakes Ciel at nine, though from the looks of things he would like to sleep more. For breakfast he brings him sliced fresh apricots and strawberries on a tray; viscous drinking chocolate in the Belleek set—pale blue with floral wreaths—and hot rolls to dip. Ciel eats this in bed, foggy-headed but desperate for sugar. Sebastian says _try not to spot the sheets_ ; Ciel's mouth is already haloed in chocolate.

Today Sebastian intends to deadhead the roses, a garden that stands in opposition to the rest of the grounds, in profligate thorny tangles, next to the orderly rows of peas on their climbers. The cultivars are ones of his own choosing, though not without Ciel's approval: abundant snow-white clusters, as the young master prefers, called little white pet. A sultry, petulant name. ( _It is not a reference to you, of course. If that is what you were wondering._ ) White flowers edged in red as though blood-dipped, named Leda. He had asked him _do you know the story of Leda?_ Ciel had said _of course,_ defiantly, crossly. He had, after all, seen her once when they visited the north of France, as painted by Riesener. The erotic scene with the swan.

They had visited in the spring, on business, to introduce French children to aniseed twists, treacle toffee and rock-sticks with the Funtom Company's trademark in the centre. Sebastian made him French sweets for the occasion— _calissons_ and _marrons glacées_ —while they picnicked in the Jardin des Plantes de Rouen, replete then with tassels of wisteria shedding their toxic, pastille-coloured petals. They had explored cathedrals and castles, had boated on the Seine, bought soft-paste porcelain and toured the Musée des Beaux-Arts, where Leda hung.

Sebastian remembers the painting well, the otherworldly light, Leda's resistant pose, her look of surrender. The eternal question: yes or no? He remembers also Ciel's distaste; he called it vulgar. Was there a hint too, of a frisson, before he averted his eye? A thrill and horror both. He was bored by then, he said, and wanted to return home.

As Sebastian clips the wilted roses off the bushes, he takes some of the choice healthy ones too, stems bending as easily as knees, snapping as easily as necks. He'll place these red-edged roses in the master bedroom, in the vases painted with pastoral scenes—plump-cheeked milk-skinned ladies in passive repose. Sebastian amuses himself with this as he fills his arms with cuttings: wholesome women holding blood-soaked flowers. On days like today he must invent for himself this kind of grisly imagery, this petty imagined violence.

At nine-thirty he returns to dress Ciel for the day, who is in a mood, and lets his body go slack. _A shipment of Funtom prototypes has arrived today. There is also a package in your study. I have moved your appointment with Mr. Husk as per your request._ Arms into shirtsleeves, legs into trousers, like straw into a sack. _Lift your head,_ Sebastian says. _You are not a ragdoll._ Buttons his waistcoat—navy velvet, a gift from Elizabeth on his sixteenth birthday—smoothes out his collar. _Which necktie would you prefer today? I don't care. Is that so._

* * *

Lunch is potted shrimps on toast with pickled capsicums, a veal and ham pie, Edam cheese, taken in his study. Also there is strong coffee in a silver pot, a drink which Ciel has only recently acquired a taste for, or least a love for the effect: the wirelike tautness of nerves, the faint buzzing of the blood. Clarity and control. He nibbles around the edges of his food, poking holes in it with his fork like a child. What would Lady Elizabeth think of your table-manners? Sebastian says. He brings him dessert afterward, however, which Ciel eats readily: a blancmange, gore-coloured claret jelly, biscuits to dip. Soft-textured pap, sickroom food or else food for babies.

After serving him, Sebastian places a handful of roses—the white ones with their proliferation of tender, suggestive pinkish buds—into a cut-glass vase, and sets this vase on the desk. Beside this is the aforementioned package: a deck of tarot cards in torn brown paper. The Grand Etteilla set, a hundred years old at least and battered around the edges, sent from France. There is a note also: _for MM. Phantomhive and Michaelis. A pleasure doing business._

"So kind of them to think of me," Sebastian says.

"But why send cards?"

"I suspect they want you to use them. They must have known your fondness for games—the French use them for _jeu de tarot._ Though I prefer divination, myself."

"Well. Tell my fortune, then." Asking a favour, not ordering. _It seems to me there is still paperwork to be done,_ Sebastian says, and Ciel says, _it won't take long, will it?_

In one corner of the room is a low, round mahogany table, ending in carved paws and covered in a tasselled tablecloth, Turkey red as in bordello curtains. The sort of table well-to-do Spiritualist ladies might have used for table-turning or séances half a century ago, a table with a theatrical air. Ciel keeps a chessboard on it, and plays against himself; his current game is nearing its end, king and pawn versus king. Sebastian has noticed he tends to favour white, the sacrosanct, storybook-hero colour. As in chess pieces, as in roses.

With permission he transfers the board to a shelf, and, standing, dutifully shuffles the cards, lays them out in formation. Ciel has seated himself behind it in its adjoining hard-backed chair, mismatched, oak with a faded needlepoint seat-cushion. Cabbage roses, foliage, baby's-breath—a wistful favourite of his mother's. He balances his coffee cup on his knee.

The cards are old enough now that the pictures are hard to make out: the coins with their alchemical symbols, bevies of cups, printed in flat colours. Sebastian reads them aloud, gaily, malevolently, in an affected ringmaster's voice. Nine of Swords, reversed: grounds for suspicion. Seven of Swords, reversed: advice neglected. Six of Wands, Strength and Justice, the Devil. _Oh dear. I am afraid this doesn't bode well._ The Nine of Cups, however, in reverse: _réussite commerciale._ Business success. _Isn't that grand?_

"You're having me on," Ciel says.

"I'm not some charlatan in a travelling circus," Sebastian says. "You know I can't lie to you. Now whether you believe or not—that is another matter."

"I don't."

Sebastian gathers all of his tableware, the empty coffee pot, the half-eaten food and begrimed dessert bowls. Places the chessboard in its rightful spot. Ciel is doing his paperwork when he leaves: single-mindedly, industriously. In ordinary light, framed by ordinary objects: dark curtains, books, roses.

* * *

Ciel spends the rest of his afternoon in the front room. Reading Catullus, whose poems are either crude or mawkish: _for no sooner was it done than you washed your lips clean with plenty of water, and wiped them with all your fingers, that no contagion from my mouth might remain._ Yawning, plunking on the pianoforte in the corner, sipping tea. At last he examines the company's new offerings, which are packed with straw in a large cedar box and smell of costly winter linens. Sebastian comes in at half past three, to clean the candlesticks and dust the portraits, and catalogues these offerings out of the corner of his eye.

There is a crank music box, painted with pies, which plays A Little Cock Sparrow when wound; a toy tea-set, mechanical dancing dolls in Rococo costume which fling their tin bodies about as though possessed. Ciel inspects them all in their turn, touching them without feeling—clever, expensive trifles, incongruous in the otherwise dark, baroque, adult room. Prim slipcovers, muffling dark velvet, everything hushed and padded, air dense as dough with old silences. I would not play with this, his expression says, but someone will. A fool born every minute. Sebastian says _those dolls are quite eerie. Perhaps something more practical?_

When he returns, hours later, to sound the dinner gong, Ciel is inspecting a stuffed dog, a mohair spaniel with unconvincing glass eyes. He turns it over in his hands and looks at it a long while, testing the strength of the stitches, palpating the stuffing. Is it fondness lingering there, or merely shrewdness? ("I outgrew those long ago," he remembers Ciel saying. Watching covertly, covetously, as a little girl passed, dragging a ball-jointed bear.) Sebastian thinks it wretched but does not say so, as Ciel will accuse him of being biased, and of having poor judgement.

"At your leisure, my lord," he says after a moment.

"Don't take that tone with me," Ciel says, and tosses the dog onto the settee. Sebastian will return later, and place it back into the box it came in, along with the scattered dolls, wooden spinning tops, carved fruit, scraps of bright cloth.

The dining room is dim, the sun nearly set though it is just past seven o'clock. The wall sconces are lit, a fire is crackling in the grate, the table is laid out with candles in their porcelain candlesticks, white branches with painted birds, and flowers, and dogs; nevertheless the room is like a cave, with its primitive, sulphurous light and pervasive chill. In the centre of the table is an arrangement of early autumn flowers—purple China asters, fern fronds and ivy. More than attractive, the arrangement is appropriate; Sebastian can be counted on for his adherence to the standard.

Dinner is served on the newly-acquired Rouen porcelain, each plate with its own silver cloche; a small fortune in dishware, not that Ciel pays any mind to that, as it would be gauche. After seating him, Sebastian removes the covers one by one, revealing an almond cake and apricot tarts; white-powdered currant dumplings, orange fritters, jam puddings with cream. Heavy, syrupy desserts, that sit like peach-stones in the pit of the stomach. Finally he unveils a masterpiece of a neapolitan ice, a pastel-striped brick of strawberry, vanilla, pistachio, topped with moulded roses. The entire dinner is a crystalline childhood fantasy: no greens, nothing steamed or boiled, just sugar, the axis around which Ciel's life revolves.

"This is unusual," Ciel says, as though expecting a trap to spring up like a jack-in-the-box. (On the long train ride to Rouen Sebastian had told him, as an aside while discussing toys, that jack-in-the-boxes were called _diable en boîte_ in French. A devil in a box, to be conjured up at will. Ciel said _you think that's quite funny, don't you?_ )

"I was only anticipating your wishes," Sebastian says. "You've been rejecting everything but sweets today."

"When have you ever let me eat whatever I like? _You cannot have desserts for dinner, young master, your teeth will rot right out of your head,_ that's what you'd say ordinarily. Only just this morning you were haranguing me about my paperwork."

"I was not haranguing, I was only reminding. If it is not what you wish then I shall prepare something else."

But of course it is what he wishes. Scripture says that to spare the rod is to spoil the child, and it's an adage Sebastian ascribes to, mostly. But Ciel is not a child. He is already spoiled.

He eats everything, each crumb and smear of jam; he sips the neapolitan ice as it melts around his spoon faster than he can eat. There is something perverse, fairy-tale-like, about him eating sweets with such abandon; an echo of Hansel and Gretel or Alice, a prelude to mischief or disaster. When he is finished he sets his silverware down with a clatter, mouth down-turned. His lower lip is glistening with a faint trace of something wet. As in fairy tales he is as yet unaware of his own erotic charm—that much has not changed.

"There's a strawberry pip in my teeth," he grouses. "You ought to be more careful."

Sebastian would like to say _what a sullen creature you are. Insolent_ , that is what he is; a word used by fathers for their children. _I have had quite enough of your insolence._ Whether Sebastian has had quite enough is immaterial. Instead he says, "shall I reach in and pluck it out for you?"

"Don't be vile."

But he relishes the thought of reaching, sexual, into Ciel's open mouth, touching the dull white stumps of his teeth with his bare hands.

* * *

Ciel retires to his rooms early, and drapes himself, like a damp cloth, on the chaise longue in his bedroom. He has laid out, on a green-felt-topped card table beside him, a game of patience, which he has shuffled, picked at and rearranged over the past few hours.

The room is gelid when Sebastian enters, despite the fire lit hours previous; the culprit is an open window letting in the night air. The window has been open all day, no doubt—in recent years Ciel's bedroom, if not aired out sufficiently, will take on a smell of oily hair, night sweats and slept-in clothes. Such is the peril of growing human bodies: these damp, undignified, clandestine smells. (The red-edged roses on his sideboard are now giving off a sweetish, woodsy odour which will soon permeate the room, and which by tomorrow will have become rank, a pond-scum, fly-catching smell. Such is the peril of _all_ living things: eventually they will begin to stink.)

"You should have called me in to close this window earlier, young master."

"It doesn't bother me," Ciel says.

Ignoring this, Sebastian sets to shutting the window, closing the drapes with a theatrical flourish. Ciel pretends not to notice, and flips over a card: the King of Diamonds. White-bearded, stern, clutching an axe; painted in full colour, with roses in his cheeks. The entire deck of cards is like this, each face card outfitted in faux-medieval dress, with huge insipid eyes, clutching symbols. Sebastian heads to the dressing room to fetch Ciel's nightclothes, and when he returns half of the cards are on the floor; Ciel sits with his chin on his fist, looking at nothing.

"You have been in quite a mood all day." He bends to pick the cards up, sweeps the remainder off the table and arranges them by number and suit. "You needn't take your tarot reading so seriously. I'm sure not _all_ of it will come true."

"You must think I'm very stupid," Ciel says, "if you think I believe in any of that." He moves from his couch to the edge of his bed, loosens his necktie with one finger. Looks at Sebastian, in expectance, from under his lashes.

Sebastian kneels before him, begins with the dead weight of his feet in their shoes and works his way up. "And if I said that I believed in it—would you think that I was stupid?" He removes his socks and their garters, hands on his calves, lingering on the backs of his knees, which are pale and blue-veined. _Blue blood,_ that's what the English say.

Ciel watches him unbutton his trousers. "Yes," he says. Sebastian begins unfastening his suspenders, pinching his skin after undoing the buttons of his shirt. "Stop that."

"My apologies," he says. "I just think you're getting a trifle fat, that's all." The other peril of living things: they change shape according to what goes in and what comes out. But then this could be an advantage, too, depending on one's perspective.

"If I am, it's your fault." Sebastian helps him into his pyjamas, the striped kind that adult men wear, blue-and-white and reminiscent of prison jumpsuits. Probably his father owned a similar pair. After nestling into his mound of blankets, Ciel rolls over onto his side, facing away from him.

"I can't sleep like this," he mutters into his pillow. "I have a stomachache."

"I wonder why," Sebastian says. He pours Ciel a tumbler of brandy from the bottle on his sideboard—a gift from Lau, whose tastes are not discerning but who knows how to spend money. For all their calomel and balsam of aniseed and cocaine cough drops, Sebastian has found most ailments of the human body to be nothing that alcohol can't cure.

"You shall have to sit up if you want to drink this in bed," he says to Ciel's rounded, concealed back.

"I'm not a little boy." Ciel's voice from under the covers. But he sits up as instructed, sipping slowly with both hands around his glass, pulling faces. Sebastian watches him drink; Ciel does not look at him, though he knows he can see him out of the corner of his eye. There is something practiced about his gaze, a studious avoidance. Finally he says, "sit down. If you're not going to leave I won't have you hovering over me like a ghoul."

_If you're not going to leave_ —the implication of choice, as if Sebastian has any.

"By your leave," Sebastian says, and seats himself at the edge of his bed. It's not often that he is permitted to sit in Ciel's presence. Quite possibly he doesn't have a stomachache. Quite possibly he just wants Sebastian to dote on him, to grease him up with various liniments, and fluff his pillows, and lay his cool hand against his forehead. He will never say so. Blood from a stone, that's the way of things with him. As with Leda, supernatural intervention is necessary. That Sebastian is a demon and not a god is not an important distinction, if a distinction at all.

"What would you have of me?" he says, as though he doesn't know. With a hollow thump, Ciel sets his half-full glass down on his bedside table; it will leave a ring on the wood, but Sebastian will not admonish him for it now. He places his hands atop his coverlet. With his chin tucked in, he says, "come here."

Sebastian pulls back the covers. As he might have predicted, there is chocolate on the bedclothes, a dark-brown stain like a fingerprint of old blood. "Typical," he says. Slowly he peels off his gloves, reaches for the fly of Ciel's pyjama bottoms, while he lies there inert yet tense as though awaiting a blow. A wooden jig doll. He begins to stroke him, evenly, firmly; if he dallies too long, employs too many flourishes, Ciel will order him away.

Still, he would like to push his fortune. He would like to place a hand on his cheek, to lick the sweat from the creases of his flesh. He would like to test the boundaries of what is allowed and what is not. He leans in under the pretext of shifting position and kisses Ciel's humid neck; like a cat, Ciel turns his face away, in disgust or disinterest.

"Don't," he says. Sebastian smiles at him, a white crescent.

"You're so—" Ciel writhes, sounding peevish, interrupts himself with a sigh. _You're so revolting._ The eternal question: yes or no? Both.

He has a smell of milk—Sebastian has heard people say so about their babies, but all humans smell that way to him. Milk and blood. There's a fairy tale like that, Sebastian thinks: _if alive, may the sea foam milk. If dead, may the sea foam blood._ There too is an undertone of crushed flowers. Ripeness and decay. He's breathing harder now, though trying to conceal it, fingers clutching at the stained bedsheets. A resistant pose.

Sebastian's right hand dips below and the smooth hard edge of his nail grazes Ciel's entrance; his legs jerk, his abdominal muscles clench, and he falls heedlessly, helplessly into orgasm, a long voluptuous shudder, spending blood-warm into Sebastian's hand. With his free hand, Sebastian pulls a handkerchief, freshly bleached, from his pocket, and cleans them both; when he is done Ciel pushes him away as if burned, though he has not yet caught his breath. (A curious turn of phrase, Sebastian reflects. That breath should be a thing one can catch, like a deer, or a bird in the hand.)

"I'm tired," Ciel says. He passes a hand over his damp face, as though in grief. "Leave me."

"As you wish," Sebastian folds his handkerchief and places it in his breast pocket, now just another thing to launder and starch and sprinkle.

As before, Ciel has settled himself under the covers, despite their dank, oppressive closeness. Sebastian extinguishes the gas-lamps, leaving the room in darkness. Through a gap in the curtains there is the shadow of a beech tree, and a pale light which illuminates, faintly, the rest of the room: the rounded edges of the bedposts, roses in a vase, the cards piled on their table. A sliver of Ciel's face, one dark eye open.

**Author's Note:**

> "You yourself, with your rose red youth and your rose white boyhood, you have had passions that have made you afraid, thoughts that have filled you with terror, daydreams and sleeping dreams whose mere memory might stain your cheek with shame—" - Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray


End file.
